A Light in a Dark Place
by prayingforanswers
Summary: Dave's stay in the psych ward and his adventures inside...


Hello. I'm S.C., the author of this fic.

**Warning: This story contains crude language, slight gore, and possible triggers to cut.**

Please enjoy and don't forget to review!

There are going to be chapters added to this. What I think I like about this is that I know how it ends but we'll both be guessing what's coming next!

* * *

><p>"David please talk to me. I can help you. I want you to get better. That's what I want for you. You can trust me David." the therapist said. She was tall and as thin as a rail and she had a squeaky voice. Dave just sat, stubborn as hell, staring at the stark white wall in front of him. His eyes were locked into the wall.<p>

"David, honey, please. We've been here for an hour and a half and you haven't said anything. The doctors want to speak with you, and I would hate to have to send you back to your room. I know you don't get along with your roommate. So come on David, talk to me." Her hand rested on his broad shoulder that was covered in a hospital gown. Dave became filled with anger and jerked the wheel chair away from her touch.

"I'm not David, I'm Dave, call me fucking Dave. I've told you this a hundred fucking times you ass hole. You know why I'm not talking? Because I don't respond to fucking David. Get it through your fucking head lady!" he screamed. She simply jotted down a few notes before speaking again.

"Davi-Dave..." she said, catching her slip up. Dave still shot her a death look before resuming his blank stare at the wall again. "Dave. You know why you are here at the Stanford Memorial Hospital? Remember why they put you here in the psych ward? Dave this is why. I want to help you. We need this to change, we need you to change. Dave we-" Dave cut her short. He was so tired of being fed bull shit. That's what the psych ward was all about, feeding you bull shit about changing into a better you. It drove him nuts when they talked about that.

"No, what I need is for you to shit the fuck up! I don't need to change lady. I'm perfectly fine the way I am." Dave sneered, crossing his arms like a five year old. In his head, this was all fine and everything in his life was pretty dandy. Except for a few minor details... well actually huge details that sucked him into a black whole.

Dr. Lender, the therapist, gave him a disbelieving look as she jotted down more notes. This was another thing he hated, everything he said, every action was recorded and analysed like there was some deeper meaning. Because yea, folding your arms really means that you were neglected as a child or you'll become a rapist. That was all bull shit that they want you to believe. "So cutting yourself to the point that you damage your internal organs if perfectly fine?"

"Yea..."

"No it's not. I need you to talk to me about why you cut in the first place, why you tried to kill yourself?" she questioned him, but Dave just rolled his wheel chair away to the other side of the room. He didn't want to think of why he did it. Of course he remembered why he had done it but the reason behind it had too many painful emotions and memories. His mind started to dabble in the memories and a small fraction of the pain came back. He couldn't deal with it and he pinched his upper arm so hard he drew blood. Dr. Lender saw this and pushed his hand away. "Dave!" she screamed, getting his attention and snapping him out of his emotional blunder. The boy blinked a few times before reaching for the tissue that the therapist was handing him. The cogs in his has turned as the drops of blood soaked into the the clothe.

"I have proposition with you." he said with an evil smile that made feel very nervous.

"Dave I really can't let-"

"Shut up and let me finish." he commanded. The frail brunet put her pen and not pad down and listened like she was told, sitting there with doe eyes. "If you stop them from giving me the meds, I promise to tell you everything. I-I can't feel anything anymore. These meds have me numb. I fucking love feeling numb, but I don't feel anything. My best friend came to see me and I didn't even feel excited to see her. She couldn't make me laugh like usual. I hate this!" Dave screamed so hard that the stitches in his abdomen hurt and started to bleed. He held his stomach and the therapist paged a nurse to get him. She finished calling for the nurse and looked at him with some empathy.

"Well Dave, I think this can be arranged. But when you tell me, I need to call in everyone who is involved in your story. And I know who they are. Santana told us. Everything."

"Shit she... she really told you everything? That back stabbing-"

"She saved your life Dave. You should be thanking her."

"What if I don't want to live?" he said coldly. In that moment, and the weeks before, it really wasn't worth living. There was too much pain involved.

"Then we will deal with that in therapy. But for now mister, you can return to your room. You have to meet with the doctors to fix those bleeding stitches. Thank you nurse." She smiled as the nurse in purple scrubs wheeled him out the door and down the hall to his room.

* * *

><p>Dr. Stevens was a shorter, stockier man who resembled somewhat of a younger Santa Claus. Dave watched as he bandaged the bleeding stitches and wondered if he would end up looking like that when he got older. When the doctor was done he smiled at Dave, but he simply replied with the usual, "Fuck you."<p>

"David, you have only three more surgeries left. Lucky you!" he cheered, looking at Dave's chart.

"Woohoo. Only three? But Dr. Stevens, why can't the pain last for fucking ever? You know how I fucking love going into surgery." Dave said with so much sarcasm it hurt. The doctor kept smiling and chimed in reminding Dave,

"With an attitude like that you'll never get better." He always said that to Dave when he gave him a bad attitude. The football player hated how happy he was all the time. It was impossible to be that happy every single second of the day, even when Dave Karofsky made it his life mission, for the time being, to make his life a living hell.

"I don't want to get fucking better." he hissed, sneering at the jolly old man. Dr. Stevens then looked at his watch and then checked the chart again, pouting for a quick second as he realized something.

"The meds must be wearing off... hmm... Nurse, please get me another dose for-"

"Fuck no!" Dave yelled, trying to stop the doctor, but the nurse in the purple scrubs was already exiting the room to grab the necessary drugs to calm his emotions. Karofsky moaned as he tried to get up, the stitches hurting more with each movement. Dave started to slide off the bed when the doctor called into the hall way,

"We need restraints." And with that, a team of nurses came in, some holding Dave down onto the bed, others strapping Dave's arms and legs down to the hospital bed.

"Get the hell off of me!" he cried, thrashing violently. He tried everything he could to get out of their grasp and the restraints but nothing could free him. The doctor cocked his head to the side as he watched Dave flail.

"Get the Nitrous Oxide." he called the the nurse in the purple scrubs who was holding the pill bottle. She sprinted to the bed side and placed the mask over Dave's flushed face before turning on the gas. He inhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath, and he could feel the laughing gas putting him to sleep.

"Just get... the... fuck..." Dave said, falling into a forced slumber. As soon as he was out, the team of nurses finished strapping him down to the bed and the doctor forced the pills down his throat.

"Let's hope he calms down. I have hope for him... he's not like the others." Dr. Stevens smiled, patting Dave's head.


End file.
